


Spectres at the Feast

by silverbirch



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-10
Updated: 2019-03-10
Packaged: 2019-11-15 04:25:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18066542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverbirch/pseuds/silverbirch
Summary: You are cordially invited to the Best Day of Allison Hargreeves' Life, sponsored by Revlon.We Only See Each Other At Weddings and Funerals - here's the other half of that equation.





	Spectres at the Feast

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rassaku](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rassaku/gifts).



 

Weddings, Allison learned over the months leading up to the Best Day of Her Life, were essentially one endless disaster, viewed from far enough away. From the thick of it, if you were the bride, say, it was a million petty annoyances, that kept getting drawn out and out and out, like a string of colorful flags from a magician’s sleeve.

“The florists _forgot_ the marigolds,” said her wedding coordinator, a psychotically effective woman of French descent named Clarabelle. She was the second biggest control freak it had been Allison’s misfortune to know, taking a distant second to her father. “How one _forgets_ marigolds, I don’t know. She said she can sub in carnations, of all the dreadful things, but _I_ think-”

Allison, surrounded on all sides by her hairdresser, her manicurist, and the magic-handed Shiatsu master currently working wonders on her bare feet (those white four-inch heels were no joke, and she was expected to dance), looked at herself in a mirror. Princess for a day, was the theory. Allison suspected that princesses got bothered by coconut shrimp catastrophes a lot less frequently.

“I’ve already spoken to your legal team, if you want to take action,” Clarabelle said, pacing back and forth with tiny rapid steps.

“You want me to sue my florist?” Allison asked. She was starting a migraine, she could feel it.

“Your team thinks you have grounds. Now, I think-”

“I heard a rumor,” Allison said, meeting Clarabelle’s eyes in the mirror, “that you handled this.”

There had been a time when it was so thrilling, the way the air wavered around her, tinted pink and purple. The way people looked - like Clarabelle looked right now- confused but helpless, barely remembering there was a time when they _didn’t_ want to do what she told them. Mouth working on small abortive sounds, confusion giving way to obedience.

_I heard a rumor you gave me your dessert._

_I heard a rumor you had a heart attack, right now._

_I heard a rumor you stopped stealing my lip gloss,_ Klaus, _for chrissakes_

_I heard a rumor you shot your friend._

_I heard a rumor that you love-_

Allison realized her manicurist, her hairdresser, and Sage-san the Shiatsu master were all staring at her in the mirror in disbelief, deeply nonplussed. It was one thing, intellectually, to know she had super powers, Allison knew. It was quite another to see them.

“I heard a rumor that you dropped this,” Allison said sharply to all three of them.

Then, after a moment’s reflection: “I heard a rumor that you didn’t tell Patrick.”

 

<><><>

 

_My Dearest Allison,_

_My felicitations to you on this most wonderful of occasions. I deeply regret that my work cannot spare me to attend, for I would be profoundly honored to give you away to this man who I hope deserves you in some small measure, as much as any man can._

_Know that I am proud of you, my beautiful daughter, and that I have always been proud of you._

_As the poet Virgil once said, ‘Omnia vincit amor; et nos cedamus amori’. Love conquers all things; let us yield to love._

_Your loving father,_

_Sir Reginald Hargreeves_

Written on beautiful stationary in a clear, elegant hand, delivered by hand by a courier wearing Reginald’s livery two days before the wedding, along with a Tiffany silver tea service that could comfortably reside in Buckingham Palace.

The hand was Pogo’s, of course, and the looping signature was Pogo’s as well. Allison wondered how many weeks the letter had sat on her father’s desk, until Pogo had finally seen the writing on the wall and signed it himself.

Still, Allison thought with surprisingly little bitterness (because every well runs dry, and people can only disappoint you so often before you become accustomed to the sting) it was the thought that counted.

She didn’t know what to make of the postscript, though, written in Pogo’s own handwriting, not his expert but not quite perfect impersonation of her father’s.

_Lovely girl,_

_It was a less distinguished poet who said, ‘Sed mulier cupido quod dicit amanti in vento et rapida scribere oportet aqua’. Or, because I know your Latin classes were long ago, and that you never much cared for them anyway:_

_‘But what a woman says to her lover, it is best to write in the wind and the swiftly flowing water.’_

_Be careful. Be loving. Do not say what cannot be unsaid._

_Love always,_

_Dr. Phineas Pogo_

<><><>

“Miss Hargreeves?”

Allison's response almost came out as a bark of _Jesus_ Christ _, what is it this time_ but Allison never wanted to be one of _those_ celebrities, so she managed to make it a pleasant “Yes, Clarabelle?” by the time it left her mouth. Her hair and makeup were done, and she just wanted a few minutes to herself.

“I’ve received word from security about a disturbance,” Clarabelle said, looking abstracted as she listened to her headset. “Apparently, a man was caught in the coat check, rifling through pockets. We’d have had him removed, but he claims to be-”

“Ah,” Allison said. “That would be my brother. Bring him here, please.”

“Here,” Clarabelle said levelly. “Your dressing room. An hour before the main event.”

“Yes,” Allison said, sweetness itself. “Here. My dressing room. An hour before the main event.”

Sadly, experience had taught her that _I heard a rumor you lost that stick up your ass_ wouldn’t do anyone any good.

“Thank you,” Allison said pleasantly. Clarabelle left. A black-suited security guard with a shaved head and a body shaped like a door appeared, firmly holding the arm of a mascara’d individual she knew well. She dismissed the goon with a jerk of her head, and he left, practically farting misgivings.

Allison spun around in her makeup chair and stood.

“Damn, girl,” Klaus said, giving her the once over. “How much did that dress cost? A million? Two?”

“Klaus, please,” Allison said, placing a hand on her crystal beaded breast. “I’m a movie star. They paid _me_ to be seen wearing it.”

“Oh, well excuuuuuuuse me,” Klaus said, but he grinned while he said it. “Can you stand a hug, or would it ruin hours of labor?”

“Better not,” Allison said. “After the ceremony. Rain check.”

“Rain check,” Klaus said, and he sat heavily down in a chair recently occupied by the manicurist. He was dressed to his best, meaning he looked like a 17th century dandy who had been bitten by a radioactive drag queen. She gave him her real smile, not the photo op smile, and sat back down.

“Mind if I smoke?”

“Could any human stop you?” Allison said. “Go ahead. Try not to put it out on my dress.”

“You never let me have any fun,” Klaus said, lighting up. He was smoking _Lucky Strikes_ , of all things. She knew he was hard up, but...

“Coat check? Really, Klaus?”

“I make no apologies,” Klaus said haughtily. “You have any idea what kind of drugs these Hollywood types bring to a wedding?”

Allison opened her mouth to say something; Klaus raised his eyebrows. He had such eloquent eyebrows. At that moment his eyebrows were saying something about coping mechanisms, and how the unwritten rule of being a Hargreeves was that you didn’t cross certain lines and you didn’t cost each other certain face. They all valued their dignity and their privacy, since they’d had none at all as children. Or as young adults. Or as adults, until they left.

“Sorry,” Allison said, breaking eye contact.

“For what?”

“Nothing, obviously. Just try not to embarrass me too much, okay?”

“No chance, chica,” Klaus said, grinning. “I’m going to find the sleaziest paparazzo in the place and spill allllll your secrets.”

“Vanya beat you to it.”

A look flashed across Klaus’ face. Of all of them, he was the one who never, ever said anything bad about another sibling - for someone as addicted to gossip, it was remarkable- but he hadn’t exactly been a fan of Vanya’s book, either.

“I guess that’s true,” Klaus said, taking a drag, and flicking the ash onto the shag carpet with a carelessness that was, as always, deliberate and staged. He was _daring_ her to tell him to get an ashtray. “I’ll just have to make something up.”

“Make it sexy.”

“I am Klaus, sister Allison. I make all things sexy.”

She laughed. It felt like such a long time since she’d genuinely laughed. Or genuinely anything, but, well, Hollywood. “Klaus, I’m so glad you’re here.”

Klaus reached out and put a hand on her knee, giving it a shake. “I’m so glad you sent me a plane ticket. You have any idea how many truck drivers I’d have to suck off to get to Los Angeles?”

“Not my area of expertise, but… six?”

“Oh at least, Klaus said. “There’s a finite amount of mouthwash in the world, you know.”

They were silent for a moment. She would kill, literally kill, for a drag on that cigarette, and with one eyebrow and a certain floppy angle to his wrist he dared her to ask for one.

“That reminds me, I got you a wedding present,” Klaus said suddenly, rooting around in the pockets of his teal leather trousers.

“My present has something to do with trucker blowjobs?” Allison asked.

“Six degrees, gorgeous. Here,” Klaus said, handing her a large, tarnished silver spoon, a little worse for wear. “It’s not on your registry, but trust me, it’s perfect.”

“Thank you, Klaus,” Allison said blankly, taking the spoon. “Is this so you can freebase out of it later?”

“No, though that’s a thought,” Klaus said, grinning. “Look closer.”

Allison sniffed it tentatively. “Hmm, it doesn’t _smell_ like heroin.”

“Oh, ha ha ha. Like you’d know. _Look_ closer, I said.”

Allison finally spotted it. On the handle, incised deeply into the silver: _RH._ Oh, dear.

“This is Dad’s,” Allison said. “This is… oh, not from the formal dining set!”

“It will drive the old bastard absolutely mad. Absolutely fucking barking.”

“You’re a bad person, Klaus.”

“I can always take it back,” Klaus said, holding out a hand. She slapped it away.

“Oh no,” Allison said. “Mine. No take-backs.”

“I’d better go,” Klaus said, standing. Allison stood too. “Any advice on which groomsman I should go for?”

“Catch as catch can,” Allison said, and she was suddenly aware that Klaus had stiffened, and his eyes were locked on the mirror behind her, tracking something she couldn’t see. He was like a cat, in that and all other ways.

Klaus licked his lips and coughed once to clear his throat. The hair stood up on the back of Allison’s neck.

“Ben says - would say… you look very beautiful,” Klaus said.

“I know he would,” Allison said, eyes stinging. “I wish he was here.”

“He…” Klaus shook his head. “I wish it too. I agree, by the way. You look… perfect.”

“Thank you,” Allison said. “Klaus… take care of yourself, would you? And stay soberish, because I expect a dance.”

“No promises and some promises,” Klaus said with a wink, heading towards the door.

She waited until the door closed behind him to whisper _thank you for coming, Ben, I love you_ to a room she devoutly hoped was empty. She wasn’t Klaus, so she’d never know, either way.

 

<><><>

 

The courier had brought another gift. A cut-glass dish of her favorite cookies -snickerdoodles, exactly twenty-four snickerdoodles- wrapped in cellophane in her favorite color (blue) and tied with a blue ribbon.

_Dear Allison,_

_Congratulations on your marriage! I hope you are happy._

_I love you,_

_Mom_

Allison’s birthday the previous month had also been commemorated with a cut glass dish of exactly twenty-four snickerdoodles, wrapped in blue cellophane and tied with a blue ribbon.

_Dear Allison,_

_Congratulations on your birthday! I hope you are happy._

_I love you,_

_Mom_

One cabinet in her kitchen was full of cut-glass dishes, dozens of identical cut glass dishes, and one drawer of her desk filled with cards, dozens of identical cards. She couldn’t even eat the cookies anymore, couldn’t for years, though they were perfect, buttery and sweet, rich with cinnamon and that indefinable taste of a mother’s love. Allison fed them to the garbage disposal, because she couldn’t throw them away.

 

<><><>

 

When the door opened again, Allison regretted that her dress made it impossible for her to use her long-neglected martial arts abilities to, say, chop the makeup table in half out of frustration. Wouldn’t Entertainment Tonight love _that._

“What _is it,_ Clarabelle?”

“I’m sorry, Miss Hargreeves, there’s been another disturbance. Apparently there was a small altercation, and-”

“Did the incident involve any thrown projectiles?”

Clarabelle blinked. “Why, _yes,_ but how did you-”

Allison drove her fingernails into her palms, the long-threatening migraine blooming like an anemone, all at once.

“Fucking _Diego_ ,” was all she said, but it made Clarabelle leave the room and shut the door behind her, so at least her brother was good for something.

 

<><><>

 

She should have gone.

Across the country, Vanya sat in her apartment, half buried in an old sweater, her pale hands wrapped around a steaming mug of tea. She watched the red carpet commentary - imagine that, her sister’s wedding had a red carpet- on low volume and thought about failure, and belonging, and not-belonging.

_I should have gone._

She’d been invited. Allison had even sent her a plane ticket. She simply hadn’t replied. What words would make a difference?

 _I should have gone_.

She dimly registered pain from her left hand; she was digging her nails into the wood of her little kitchen table. She couldn’t afford splinters, she had rehearsal later.

_You should have gone._

Vanya closed her eyes, shutting out Allison’s camera ready smile. She tried to focus on her breathing, but the calm wouldn’t come.

_I wish I was you._

_I wish I was you._

_I wish I was one of you._

_Any one._

Fumbling for her pills, ignoring her stinging eyes, Vanya heard, but did not note, the chiming of the windows behind her in their frames, the creak of the floorboards under her, as though they were resonating with the swirling steam from her tea.

 

<><><>

 

Literally minutes before Allison was supposed to walk down the aisle, Clarabelle - perhaps realizing that as soon as Allison was married, her opportunities to harass and inveigh the bride would be limited, maybe nonexistent - hustled up to her, excusing herself from Allison’s “A list” bridesmaids and giving the shortest of shrifts to “B list” and below. She had a phone, trailing a long cord.

“Phone call for you, Miss Hargreeves.”

“Is this _really_ the best time,” Allison said, voice tight. One of the A-list bridesmaids - one of the Olsens, Allison had frankly forgotten which- hustled out of the way, eyes a little wild. It took remarkably short acquaintance for people to start avoiding that tone of her voice.

“It’s your brother.”

Allison’s hand paused in reaching for the phone. She blinked several times.

“If you’ll excuse me, my loves,” Allison said, making a ridiculous duck face at her bridesmaids that covered, barely, her desire to say something like _I heard a rumor you hustled your freshly-tucked bronzer-cremed asses out of here, tout de suite._

The room was clear, and Allison stilled her shaking hand.

“Hey, Luther.”

A long, drawn out burst of static. “Hey, Al.”

Allison made a sound that was half laugh, half choke. “Don’t call me that.”

A long delay, more static. “I will if I want. I can’t pull your pigtails from here.”

“Where are you?” Allison asked, and for approximately the four hundred thousandth time that day wished for a cigarette. She needed something to do with her hands.

“...Mozambique,” Luther said through a cloud of hissing static. “...portant mission. Dad…”

_I heard a rumor you stayed with me. I heard a rumor you left dad. I heard a rumor you loved me more than you loved Dad. I heard a rumor you loved me the way I wanted you to._

She hadn’t done it. But she’d thought about it. But maybe she loved Luther because he was difficult, where everyone else was so fucking easy.

 _Like Patrick_ , whispered a snide little voice in her mind, and she shushed it, squashed it down. Squashed down the memory of that flawless face going slack, those dreamy eyes clouding.

“...Sorry I can’t be there,” Luther said, in that flat little boy voice that meant he was lying. Allison thought that maybe Dad hadn’t needed to hunt for an excuse to send Luther across the planet on the day of her wedding. Maybe Luther had asked to go.

“Klaus is here. He sends his love.”

“...Has it been disinfected?”

For the second time that day slash decade, Allison made a noise that expressed actual amusement.

“Luther, I’m about five minutes from the altar… you should visit. When you can. You sometimes stop in Los Angeles, right? That super-jet needs to refuel somewhere.”

“...don’t think that’s a very good…”

“Ah, yeah.” Allison said, blinking rapidly. Her makeup artist, Raphael, would throw the catwalk tantrum of all catwalk tantrums if she ruined her face with sentiment. When she’d done the big death scene in that one movie where she’d played the single mother soccer coach with leukemia they’d had to squirt glycerin in her eyes. Why the hell was it coming so easily now? “I guess it, ah, wouldn’t be.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” Allison said.

And what, Allison thought, was this banal shit? Words crowded her mouth, only some of them tinged purple, but she didn’t let any of them out.

Had she still been hoping, deep down, that when the officiant said the part about speaking now or forever holding your peace, that Luther would rappel through the stained glass window and beg her not to leave him?

Was she really that stupid?

“I have to go,” Allison said.

“Yeah. Yeah. Have… have a good wedding.”

“You too,” Allison said, thoughtlessly, then debated smacking herself in the forehead with the phone.

She hung up the phone, and pointedly ignored her shaking hands. She’d bitten her lip and her lipstick was all over her teeth. Raphael would be furious.

_Why am I doing this?_

_Why why why why why._

 

<><><>

 

About ten minutes, that’s how long Diego lasted at the reception. Fancy people, fancy drinks, people laughing too much, and every single one of the pretty fuckers gave him that itch between the shoulder blades that he usually got when someone was armed and drawing a bead on him.

It was the teeth. All the giant white teeth.

They were looking snide at his clothes, too, he could tell. It was his nicest leather jacket, and the tank top was the only shirt he had that didn’t have bandoliers attached, and why were they being such dicks about it?

Although some of them were also eyebanging him pretty hard. Sometimes he wanted to say, I’m not your biker fantasy, ladies and gentleman, I was raised by a billionaire. I speak French. I had to learn how to saddle a dressage mare. I know what I look like in cricket whites.

_Like a dipshit is what I look like in cricket whites._

But he’d struck out the with bridesmaid, and why did anyone go to weddings, if not to get wrecked on booze or get wrecked on bridesmaids? It sure as hell wasn’t for the pleasure of watching his sister marry a Land’s End mannequin that she had, Diego was prepared to bet infinite money, almost certainly brainwashed. And Diego didn’t drink.

He’d noted the fire exit in the banquet hall because he always did. For safety (earthquake country) and also because if that Singer guy tried to give him another neck rub he wanted a clear avenue of escape if knifing… y’know, happened. He paused at the heavy metal door, listening, and went through it in one rapid movement, keeping his back to the wall. He had a hard time doing things like doors normally.

What the hell even was normal, anyway.

His escape was thwarted when he walked into a pungent cloud of marijuana smoke, emitted by - inevitably- Klaus, who was lounging on the staircase like it was a crushed velvet divan. Diego had reason to know that Klaus could sleep in a dumpster like it was a four-poster canopy bed, covered in ruffles and little floofy pillows.

“Why hello thar,” Klaus said, somehow giving the impression that he was giving Diego a graceful curtsy, though he was sitting, and not wearing a skirt, and in fact hadn’t moved at all, just waggled his eyebrows. “Whatever are you doing here?”

“Struck out with a bridesmaid. What are you doing here?”

“Struck out with a groomsman. Or maybe a waiter. He was wearing a tux, but he was also carrying a tray of bacon-wrapped scallops. Mixed messages. Which bridesmaid?”

“Dunno,” Diego said, sticking a knife in the door jam out of habit and sitting down, crisscross applesauce. “Tall blonde. Skinny. You know I like ‘em with attitude.”

Klaus giggled. “Diego, you just hit on Taylor Swift.”

“Who?”

Klaus shook his head in his time-honored way, implying Diego was more to be pitied than blamed.

“Aww, well,” Klaus said. “I guess you’re not going to get a mention during her Grammy’s acceptance speech. Better hold out for a name drop when Allison wins her first Oscar.”

“Pfft, right,” Diego said. Klaus scooched over, and rested his head on Diego’s knee. It couldn’t be comfortable, but Diego allowed it. The hand he put on Diego’s head was just habit, as was the hair ruffling.

“What, you don’t think she’s Academy Award material?” Klaus asked.

“Uh, no. No I do not.”

Music began to leak through the door. Diego had watched Allison dance with her mandroid, the picture of happiness. It was bullshit - everything Allison did was bullshit, in Diego’s experience- but he knew it would look great on the cover of all the gossip rags. That was true to Diego’s experience, too.

“Why the fuck are we here?” Diego asked. “And put that shit out.”

“This shit is primo,” Klaus said, but he obligingly ground it out on a concrete step. “And I am here for free food and easily scored drugs. Obviously.”

“I don’t even drink, so why am I here?”

“Because you love your sister, you giant pussy.” Klaus said. “Ha ha, sucks to be you.”

“You love her too,” Diego said accusingly. Boy, Diego, _that_ was a great comeback.

“Well yeah,” Klaus said, “but _I’m_ the cokehead wastrel. _You’re_ supposed to be Batman.”

“I’m not supposed to be Batman,” Diego said. They’d had this conversation before.

“I’m Diego,” Klaus snarled, adding two cups of gravel to his voice. “I wear black, black like my _soul_ . I fight _criiiiiiiiime.”_

Diego pitched his voice about four octaves higher, and for good measure added his fruitiest British accent - Dad crossed with Elton John. “Oh, I’m Klaus, I wear- Klaus, bro, what the _fuck_ are you wearing- _things,_ and my life is a _paaaaaartaaaaaaaaaay.”_

“No time for parties,” Klaus growled, flicking his eyes back and forth. “Parties would interrupt my relentless pursuit of crime. I peeled this leather jacket off James Dean’s gay-ass corpse. I think with my _knife._ Crime doesn’t pay. That’s why I have such a shitty car.”

“You leave Eleanor out of this,” Diego said. “And you’re one to talk. Last I checked the closest you had to a car was a pair of roller skates.”

“Jokes on you, fucko, I traded them for hash like a year ago.” Klaus said, scowling. It wasn’t his real scowl, though, Diego could tell upside down.

Diego really didn’t know how they got along so well. Of all his siblings, Klaus was by far - by like, the kind of distance used to measure the space between celestial objects- the most annoying. But somehow it didn’t quite take. Somehow things were okay, if they were from Klaus.

“I have reached a decision,” Klaus declared, standing, wobbling just a bit on the apex. Some of that was the teal and silver platforms, but not all of it. His eyes were bright, pupils dilated. Diego sighed, internally. “Two decisions. One, I am done with this wedding. Two, you are going to dance with me.”

“Gay.”

“Quite. Now, chop chop, off your fanny.”

“Klaus, how high are you?”

“Just the normal amount!” Klaus protested. “Now, come on. Dieeeeegooooooo. Raus.”

Klaus reached under his armpits and tried to haul him up. Which was pretty much like a bluetit trying to haul a St. Bernard off the ground, since Klaus was made of sponge cake and mascara.

“I don’t dance.”

“Diego, I once walked in on you doing all the moves from Bad Romance _.”_ Klaus said. “It was beautiful. It brought tears to my eyes.”

“I don’t dance, that never happened, and you promised you’d never bring it up,” Diego said heatedly.

“I promised I’d never _tell_ . Subtle difference. Now come _on_.”

“What part of ‘I don’t dance’ don’t you get?”

“The part where you don’t do what I want. Now come on, Diego ‘These Hips Don’t Lie’ Hargreeves, get off your flat ass and dance with me.”

Diego groaned and buried his face in his hands. Klaus, familiar with this sign of victory, did a little hitch kick.

“Aww, come on. Nobody will see. Allison promised me a dance but the Hemsworths keep passing her around like a bong. Come on. C’mon c’mon c’mon.” Klaus grabbed his wrists and hauled him up. Diego let him, but he wasn’t, like… _happy_ about it.

“Hands above the waist. I’m _not_ that kind of boy," Klaus said, faux scandalized.

“Shut up, don’t be weird, and yes you are.”

The music was… nice, actually. It was modern; if it had been composed before 1850, Diego would have had to write an essay and learn how to play it on the harpsichord before now. Man, seriously, fuck their education.

This was always how it worked with Klaus, somehow. Diego said _no_ and Klaus said _okay I get it_ and somehow it ended like this, Klaus’ hand on his shoulder, Diego’s on his waist, dancing begrudgingly to the muffled string quartet. After a few turns Diego growled with frustration.

“Would you frigging let me lead, Klaus?”

A snort. “Says Diego, who cannot dance.”

“Oh, shut up, Klaus.”

“The funny thing is, you don’t even want me to.”

“The funny thing is, you never will.”

“I hope Allison will be okay,” Klaus said after a long moment. “I don’t think this… does this seem above board? I…”

“You’re worried about _her_? That woman can take care of herself.”

Klaus sighed and rested his head on Diego’s chest, and Diego let him, and wondered if Klaus might be amenable to a twirl.

 

<><><>

 

Five was in a new phase of his intellectual development. He’d gone through many, over the years. For a while he read only The Great Philosophers, which must live on in the only human mind. God, that had been a boring decade. Mystery novels for a bit and change; he always got a thrill when he solved the case. Suck it, Poirot, you fat Belgian prick. Delores was never impressed, though. Said she always saw it coming. God, but he loved her. He even loved her lies.

For a time he’d found his solace in the Bible, until Delores pointed out that the apocalypse happened, and had manifestly _not_ resulted in the Millennial Reign of Christ, and anyway he was an atheist and always had been, his own virgin birth notwithstanding. Now, there was a thought, maybe he _was_ Jesus. It felt like he’d been around for a thousand years. Maybe Dad would let him go home. Maybe Dad would show him it had all been for a reason. Maybe the gates would open and Grace would be waiting with his favorite cookies and Pogo would help him out of his coat.

 _Well done, thou good and faithful servant_ , Five thought to himself, giggling wildly, scratching his long white beard. Must try to find more shampoo. The coconut kind, that smelled like the beach. He liked the coconut kind. (It smelled like the beach.)

It turned out two thousand years of media were right. God _was_ an emotionally castrating old white guy. They’d just missed the monkey butler.

But books. Recently he’d been on a kick of only reading things that made him glad that the human race was extinct. Diet books were good for that. John Grisham’s doorstoppy mediocrities had made him glad for the disaster that had stilled _that_ pen. A doomsday prepper’s two thousand page insanely racist manifesto had filled a solid month with delicious misanthropy, even as Five had gotten fat on the idiot’s rice and beans. Bliss, to be able to look around at the end of the human race with deep satisfaction, not mourning.

Recently, entertainment magazines had struck his fancy. Close up pictures of cellulite and bikini mishaps, new watches and ads for miracle creams, plastic surgery fails and baby bumps. Millions of people had been starving, Five thought, while this article was written. While the fingerquotes reporter wrote this article, at the _exact_ moment she was writing in lascivious detail about some old fat asshole’s obvious hair plugs (Five imagined with a certain fond relish), a teenage dissident in South America had been hooked up to a car battery by the nipples, his fingers macheted to stumps. Exquisite; it had a piquancy like Delores’ favorite wine.

Thank _fuck_ they were all dead.

The basement he was rummaging through had a million of them, along with several bottles of raspberry plonk and some well-loved porn hidden behind the rusted old dryer. He rubbed his chapped hands together in glee; a stack of People Magazines twenty thick. He’d be happy for at least a week.

Then as he bent over, his old back creaking, the magazines at the top of the pile slid to the floor, and he found himself staring directly at his sister.

WEDDING OF THE CENTURY!

His sister looked like a goddess in her wedding dress, on the arm of a cheekboney homunculous that Five recognized from other articles as an a-list underwear model and d-list actor who had a habit of knocking up his housekeepers. Allegedly.

WEDDING OF THE CENTURY!

He snatched the magazine off the top of the pile, and the wine, his head churning as he stomped towards what was left of the stairs.

 

<><><>

 

Back at the library, Delores was worried, bless her. Five had the half gallon of raspberry zinfandel (mostly empty) in one hand, and the magazine in the other.

“Listen to this, listen to this. ‘The bride was beautiful in a custom made Balin...Balin… _Balenciaga_ -yes, thank you, Delores- wedding gown.’ Look how beautiful she looked. That’s what you say about brides, isn’t it, Delores?”

Five was startled to discover he was crying. He only noticed as the tears froze in his beard. He rarely noticed the cold anymore.

“Patrick Whitemore. Did he love her, was he kind to her? He better have been, or I’ll kill him. I’ll fucking kill him. I’m glad he’s dead if he was mean to my sister. Bas. Bastard,” Five said.

“Of course he was, of course he was kind,” Five said, sitting beside her, laying his head on Delores’ shoulder. It had taken a long time for him to be intimate. Little touches. She taught him so much. He felt her hand, gentle on the back of his head. He did. He really did.

“Klaus was there. Diego was there. Luther was in Mozambique, Vanya was in New York… where was Ben? Why wasn’t Ben there? Ben should have been there. Ben would never… would never…”

“Oh god, Delores,” he said, after he realized the long, drawn-out deafening sound of an animal being tortured was coming from him, because there was nobody else, nobody else in the world, to make that sound.

“I hope they were happy. For as long as they had. I hope they were happy.”

Snow began to fall. Delores was right; they should go to bed.

“I don’t think they were, though,” Five said, polishing off the bottle, and he hurled it away to smash among a thousand other bottles, in the Biography section. Fuck Biographies. Stories people told about people were nothing but goddamn lies.

Delores helped him into bed. He would love her forever for that.

 

<><><>

 

One last perfect smile. One last camera flash.

Hold your hand just so. Let the diamond sparkle. Let them see your facets, too, as you turn them to the light.

“How does it feel, Allison?” asked the reporter, and Allison dredged up a perfect balance of lips and teeth and angle and eyebrows through a grey haze of exhaustion and uncertainty. The wedding was over. The marriage was begun.

_Why am I doing this._

_Why why why._

“It was the best day of my life,” Allison said, before she waved them off, graciously, like a queen. Patrick was waiting in the Bentley outside the hall, to start their lives together.


End file.
